


get on with it

by Katraa



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Dancing, Fancy Outfits, Gen, M/M, Officer Ball, Sloppy Makeouts, Slow-dancing, Snark, Suits, Unresolved Sexual Tension, boys being dumb boys, lots of snark, this is very self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 08:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11078307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katraa/pseuds/Katraa
Summary: Still, it wouldn’t do any good to go alone. Books always said that those that went to these sort of events without a date were blacklisted, were stared at strangely, were considered weird.  And that’s the last thing Goro Akechi wanted.  He wouldn’t do for anymore unwanted labels. Thankfully, he had the perfect guest in mind.also known as: that one story where akechi invites akira to be his date to the annual police gala.  what could possibly go wrong?





	get on with it

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to the plurk family!!!
> 
>  
> 
> thanks for putting up with me guys.  
> and all of the amazing threads i've had with you all.  
> i somehow managed to finish this before the end of goro's birthday.  
> atlus really threw me for a loop with that.  
> i'm not entirely happy with this but i hope it's good for you guys?  
> i don't know.

Social gatherings were - for the most part - a necessary evil in his line of work. Hollow conversations over food were par for the course. It helped to have a repertoire of useless trivia: _yes, I’ve been there, it’s quite good. I’d personally recommend the scallops if you’re feeling adventurous_ , or _it’s quite the sight, certainly. The atmosphere is half the sale_ , or even _actually, the 109 opened in 1979 and has been quite the focal point of Shibuya since_. Appetizers also helped speed things along, since most people didn’t expect you to hold court when you were taking a bite of a (bland) cracker topped with (even blander) cheese. The more you practiced the easier it became. Like anything else in the world, practice made perfect and it wasn’t something you couldn’t teach yourself with a couple of library books and a penchant for charming adults.

Still, there were the rare gatherings that didn’t fit into any category. Coworkers’ birthdays? Those usually were dinners and drinks. Milestones at the station? That was simply light conversation and cake. But charity events? Those were a different creature _entirely_.

“Usually I don’t push these things on anyone,” Sae says as she rounds his desk, holding an invitation neatly between her fingers, “but it’s good for team-building, if nothing else.”

“I imagine the PR is decent as well,” Akechi answers, glancing up from his case file. His gaze sweeps over the neat cardstock. “Is this an annual event?”

“Usually,” Sae answers tersely and she shakes her head. “We took the past couple of years off because of a lack of funding.”

“Ah. That explains why this is the first time I’m hearing about it,” Akechi says with a saccharine smile. “I take it you’re going?”

“Yes,” says Sae, though there’s a heaviness to her eyes as she pockets the invitation and folds her arms to her chest. “Let me know if you have any questions. The invitation has the specified dress-code and all the details.”

Akechi’s lips draw into a thin line. “Of course. Your help is appreciated as always.”

Sae lingers for a moment too long. In the end, though, she says nothing and heads back to her desk, fingers fidgeting and drawing her hair back up into a messy bun to get out of her face. When she’s out of view, Akechi reaches for the invitation sitting on the rusty tray labeled _inbox_. The edge of the invitation is bent and the glossy gold-letters glimmer in the dim light of the police station.

You and a guest are cordially invited to the Annual Officer Charity Ball. 

Time: 8:00 PM  
Location: Inaba Ballroom, Floor 4, Diet Building  
Dress-Code: Formal

Donations are encouraged but not required. Dinner will be provided buffet-style. 

Scribbled at the bottom of the invitation in handwriting that is undoubtedly the Director’s:

_Go._

How curt.

With a roll of his eyes, he sets the invitation back down before leaning back in his chair. His chin comes to rest in his palm. What possible benefit could attending bring _them_? Perhaps a future target? Gathering intel? Keeping up his public-face?

Still, it wouldn’t do any good to go alone. Books always said that those that went to these sort of events without a date were blacklisted, were stared at strangely, were considered _weird_. And that’s the last thing Goro Akechi wanted. He wouldn’t do for anymore unwanted _labels_.

Thankfully, he had the perfect guest in mind.

***

[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] So it’s a date.  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] Hah! That’s a very funny joke.  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] I’d appreciate the company. There’s admittedly not many people I have to ask and I figured you would enjoy the free food.  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] The perfect date.  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] Is there sushi?  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] I… believe so. Is that a determining factor? I can call and check, certainly.  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] No. I just really like sushi.  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] ….I see. So is that a yes?  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] Do I have to dress up?  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] Unfortunately yes. I’m sure even a thief such as yourself has the ability to rent a suit for the night.  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] You didn’t say I had to wear a suit.  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] It’s protocol, I’m afraid.  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] A suit. So it really is a date.  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] Always the jokester, Kurusu!  
[ **Kurusu Akira:** ] I’ll go. Pick me up at Leblanc.  
[ **Akechi Goro:** ] Thank you. You have my undying gratitude, Kurusu.

***

“My apologies, I don’t mean to be overbearing, but your tie is crooked.”

It’s the longest subway trip of his life soon to be coupled with the longest night of his very short life. Akira Kurusu is standing barely a foot away from him, clutching onto the fabric of the loop above their heads for support. His gaze is elsewhere, staring out the subway windows, watching the scenery go by. It takes Akechi actually speaking before slate grey eyes turn back to him. And then down to the tie he’s wearing that conveniently matches his (too) pretty eyes.

“Ah. Is it?” he asks calmly, indifferently.

“Yes.” Akechi shifts restlessly, his fingers turning white around the fabric loop. “I can easily fix it for you when we reach our destination.”

Akira cocks his head to the side, slowly, eyes thoughtfully affixing to the ceiling. “Maybe,” he begins, “Thanks, honey.”

Akechi tenses, skin crawling at the words. He knows they’re a taunt, knows they’re all part of the strange game of cat and mouse between them (thief and detective), but it can’t help the way his lips purse. Can’t help the way his heart skips a beat. Can’t help the fact that when the subway jerks just a bit, completing a turn, he finds himself almost losing balance. Blame it all on Akira Kurusu.

“You okay?” Akira asks coolly.

Akechi knows he’s holding back a smirk. He can see it in those godforsaken eyes. In a few short weeks he’ll place the barrel of his gun between those fucking perfect eyes and _bang_. He’ll be one less distraction. One less inconvenience. One less infuriatingly perfect person that has everything Akechi _doesn’t--_

“Akechi?”

“Of course. I simply wasn’t ready for the turn.” Akechi clears his throat and looks out the window. In the dingy reflective surface he meets Akira’s eyes for a split second. Akira is the first to look away (oddly) and Akechi can’t help but wonder _why_. Where’s that bravado? Where’s that haughtiness of _Joker_?

“Are these common?” Akira questions, shoulders rolling, weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“Are what common?” Akechi echoes, voice just this side of pleasant, as he turns his head back. “Oh. You mean the Officer Balls? Not particularly, though. This is the first one. As I mentioned over the phone, it’s a charity event that the station wishes to continue in the future.”

“Mm.” Akira nods, laconically looking away. Akechi is about to continue talking but Akira cuts him off, “That’d be the first good thing they’ve done in awhile.”

Akechi isn’t sure if he was meant to hear that. The words sound contrary, agitated, _personal_. It doesn’t take an ace detective to know that Akira harbors not-so-great feelings towards the police, but he hadn’t heard the boy actively talk about it before. Just like Akechi doesn’t speak about his own grudges and views of the world (apart from his show), Akira seems to keep some things close to his chest. 

“I’m sorry?” Akechi says, brow quirking and he decides to _press on that_.

“Ah.” Akira looks back and has the tenacity to look _uncomfortable_ , face tinting red. “I don’t believe that much in the system. Not with everything that’s happened.”

_To me_ goes unsaid but definitely not unheard. Akechi finds his own nose wrinkling at the mystery of it all. “Yes, while it may be a flawed system, it’s the system that we currently have in place. I didn’t know you felt that strongly about it, Kurusu. Perhaps you should pursue a career in politics?” It’s said with a smile and a twisting, gut-wrenching sensation in his stomach. 

“Hah.” Akira rolls his eyes, the pinkness fading. “I don’t like politicians much, either.”

“Isn’t there one you help with speeches?” Akechi asks.

“He’s an exception.” Akira shakes his head, fingers playing with the fraying fabric above his head. “At least he knows he’s No Good. He doesn’t try and pretend he’s something he’s not.”

The words are heavy, layers and layers of implications, and Akechi is about to pry, dig deeper, solve this mystery because that’s just _what he does_ when the train comes to a stop. A bell dings above their heads signaling that they’ve reached their destination. Akechi is the first to let go of the strap, his arm spreading out in one fluid motion towards the door.

“After you, of course.” 

Akira tosses him a look – an unreadable stare – but then he nods and steps out of the train and onto the platform.

***

“This is the first time I’ve worn a tie.”

“I hardly believe that. Aren’t they part of your uniform?”

“Not usually.”

“In your hometown, then?”

“Maybe. Who knows?”

Akechi feels his skin crawling in irritation. His fingers continue fixing Akira’s tie, centering it with a bit too forceful of a _tug_. Akira nearly stumbles into him, eyes flying open and cocky expression disappearing. A look of pure enjoyment dances across Akechi’s face in response. Nailed it.

“There. That’ll do, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” Akira mumbles, subconsciously rubbing at the back of his neck. The suit is scratchy, warm. Consrticting. He doesn’t feel at home in it. 

“Feel free to wander the ball freely. If I need you for any reason I’ll be sure to text you.”

“Ah,” Akira says, a bit breathlessly, a grin creeping up as he laughs. “I wouldn’t abandon my date. Even for a sushi buffet. That’s not a gentleman thing to do.”

Akechi’s left eye twitches and he tosses Akira a less-than-impressed, _flat stare_. “You’re really embracing your role, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Akira nods, hands sliding into his pockets, glad that the suit slacks even _has pockets_. 

His attention slides to the Diet Building and then back to Akechi, just in time to notice that the detective has turned away and now has a hair tie neatly clamped between his lips. Akira finds himself staring in utter fascination as dainty, dexterous fingers drag through Akechi’s hair. The detective pulls it up and then with his left hand takes the hair tie from his teeth and begins winding it around and around. Into a ponytail. 

“Is something the matter?” Akechi asks, calmly, polite smile perfectly in place as he finishes the ponytail.

“No,” Akira says simply and ignores the way his chest does this weird _clenching_.

“All right.” Akechi nods and then pivots on his heel to face the entrance of the building. “Might as well get this over with,” he says under his breath, just loud enough for Akira to hear. 

The detective is about to ascend the steps to the grand entrance but stops mid-step when he feels an arm slide against his. Further, that brazen arm then hooks in his own. And even further, he feels Akira’s _frustratingly warm_ presence and weight against his side. He doesn’t need to look over to see that debonair smirk.

“Shall we?” Akira asks, voice surprisingly deadpan.

“Of course.”

***

Despite being a branch of the general government, the station cuts no corners. The ballroom is detected out, screaming exuberance, from floor to ceiling. Clusters of flower decorate tables, serving as makeshift centerpieces. Along each wall is a long table, dressed in an elegant white tablecloth, complete with a buffet of sushi and fingerfoods. At the end of each table is a small bar, serving both wine and beer of all varieties. Most of the room is already packed, officers and guests alike flitting between groups, chortling over champagne and closed cases. Akechi feels extremely out of place despite his best efforts to _feel at home_ in such a mature setting. It grates his nerves.

“Think they all know about my record?” Akira jokes under his breath as they step inside the room, arms still hooked much to Akechi’s chagrin.

“I doubt it,” Akechi says breezily, quite the contrary to his stomach, “Your case is hardly pressing and I doubt anyone has picked it up since your arrival.” Anyone besides him goes unspoken.

“Cool,” Akira sighs blandly and begins directing them over to the nearest buffet.

“I should go say my round of hellos,” Akechi begins, slowly beginning to unravel himself from Akira’s exasperating presence, “After all, Sae recommended that I come so it would only be polite of me to pay my respects.”

“I’ll come with you.”

A beat. Akechi stares back at Akira like he’s grown two heads, suddenly delaying his extraction. Akira’s eyes glint mischievously behind his glasses and he securely bends his arm to keep Akechi’s trapped in its hold. 

“You said you needed a date, right?”

Right. Appearances.

“That’s…” Akechi begins and then stops himself. With another clearing of his throat, he finds himself nodding, even as his feet remained firmly planted to the floor. “Perhaps that’s the best course of action, yes.”

“Time to mingle with high society,” jokes Akira as he not subtly nudges Akechi in the general direction of a large group of adults.

One foot in front of the other and Akechi has never felt more like a child playing dress-up in adult clothing as he does in this exact moment. It’s taken years to get _half_ the people in the room to take him seriously, and even then, he isn’t blind to the sneers and low-profile cases that are shoved across his desk. _You’re just a kid_ , they say as they all but pat him on the head and walk away. _You’ve definitely got a face for TV. Enjoy it while it lasts_ they sometimes confide in him, rattling off unsolicited advice. He doesn’t fit in here. He doesn’t fit in _anywhere_.

“Speak of the devil, here’s the Prince himself!”

Akechi feels lead in his stomach and snakes on his skin. “Ah, hello, Officer.” He bows his head respectfully in greeting, brown fringe hiding the absolute _disdain_ in his eyes. “How are you this evening?”

“Great, great. I see that you brought along a friend,” the man – some middle-aged Officer with a beer belly – lets his eyes rake over Akira who dutifully lifts a hand and waves. 

“Yes. This is Akira Kurusu,” Akechi says smoothly, Akira’s first name tasting odd on his lips as he looks over to the aforementioned brat. 

“You excited to be among the elite for the evening?” the Officer jokes, chuckling, his gaze not dropping from Akira.

Akira doesn’t miss a beat and deadpans, “It’s a dream come true.”

“Good, good,” the man laughs and he looks back to Akechi. “Good to see that you have friends outside the station, Akechi. We’ve all been taking bets if you’d show up stag.”

It’s meant as a joke, it has to be, but it still manages to make every single muscle in Akechi’s body tense. There’s a prolonged, poignant pause after that. Akira seems to notice the nearly tangible awkwardness that’s engulfed the trio and he gives a squeeze to their adjoined arms.

“Actually,” he begins smoothly, “Goro is my boyfriend. He’s very sweet and talks fondly of his work at the station.”

Akechi chokes, barely able to hide it with a well-timed cough. There’s a litany of reactions: his face surges dark red, his stomach knots, his eyes narrow, rage seethes through him, confusion smacks him upside the head, his legs feel weak. He isn’t sure where to begin. He isn’t sure how to process that. What kind of sick, twisted joke _is that_? And who gave _Kurusu_ permission to speak his given name so _casually_? So intimately? 

“Damn, I guess I lost that bet,” the man chuckles, a full body laugh, and he’s shaking his head and then turning to the far right. “Hey, boss, guess you were right after all. I owe you Big Bang tomorrow!”

“They’re… taking bets… on my social life?” Akechi seethes under his breath through gritted teeth.

Akira hears it – the second thing he’s heard not meant for his ears tonight – and cocks his head to the side. It’s taken him months of figuring out how to best get under the detective’s skin, most of which have been met with brutal failure. Yet here they are, in a room full of adults, and everyone seems to have mastered the ability to piss Akechi off. It’s kind of awesome.

Until Akira realizes it’s about respect. It’s about fitting in. Akechi doesn’t have their respect and doesn’t fit in. He’s not the right size shoe for this foot. He’s a sheep among wolves – well, at least in this context, ignoring the elephant in the room.

“We’ll be going,” Akira drawls out, bowing his head respectfully, and _yanks_ Akechi over to the bar portion of the buffet table that’s conveniently free of meddlesome adults.

“Akechi—“ Akira starts when they’re alone, dropping his arm at long last.

“Yes?” The murderous look from earlier, albeit how briefly it had shown itself, is gone and in its place is that frustratingly fake smile.

“…Nevermind,” says Akira and he rubs the back of his neck.

“As much as I enjoy seeing them caught off guard as you,” Akechi decides to speak for the both of them, “I’d recommend not overstepping your boundaries, Kurusu.”

It’s a heavy-handed statement filled with layers of meaning. Akira’s brow furrows and he can’t help the shape of a frown his lips take. “So no on the dating thing?”

“I like to keep my social life a mystery,” Akechi explains and it sounds _so damn convincing_. “After all, half the allure of a Prince Detective is his unattainability. My fans certainly wouldn’t like the idea that I was suddenly locked down.” A beat. “With a delinquent.”

So that’s his angle. Akira’s frown tweaks into a grin and he leans forward on the balls of his feet. “I dunno,” he says, “a detective and a criminal. It’d be ripe for gossip.”

Akechi barks a laugh but doesn’t lean away. “Hardly. It’d be scandalous and an early death to my career.”

Akira keeps cleaning closer. “You already invited me here as your date. I think people are going to talk.”

“Are they? I assumed they thought you were just a friend.” Sour, the word tastes sour on his lips and his brows furrow at the bitterness. 

Akira shrugs it off. “They might,” he agrees and then artfully reaches back behind him, blindly groping at the table. Craftily, his hands seize two glasses of champagne and bring them forward, settling one right under the good detective’s nose. “For you, my love.”

Akechi’s eye twitches again. “Kurusu, you realize we’re both underage.”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re in a room full of cops,” said doubtfully.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re on probation.”

“Yeah.”

“My apologies for being blunt, but… Have you lost your mind?”

Akira laughs and gives the glass under Akechi’s nose a quick swirl. “Not really, no. Not yet, anyway.” A pause and then he starts up again, “Anyone that would catch us is already here. They aren’t checking identification and I’m sure they won’t be able to tell it’s not juice.”

“That argument is full of holes. No wonder you’re not a detective yourself,” Akechi refutes, expression flattening as Akira all but shoves the rim of the glass up against his nose. “Kurusu—”

“You’re always serious,” Akira says calmly and gives another jerk of the glass. “Just one.”

“I don’t see why you’re so set on this,” Akechi murmurs as his hand, regretfully, lifts to take the glass from Akira’s clutches. Their fingers inevitably brush and the glass almost drops to the floor. Akechi ignores it, the flash of surprise, of warmth, of electricity, in favor of taking a long sip.

“Good job, detective. I’ll make a criminal out of you yet,” deadpans Akira as he takes a sip of his own glass.

“This is uncouth,” Akechi mumbles against the glass, flicking his gaze away.

“Says the guy that invited me as his date. It comes with the territory.”

“Yes, I’m regretting my decision full heartedly.”

***

Two glasses of champagne, three awkward introductions, and four sushi rolls later and Akira is vibrating with energy. The usual quiet, serious leader is grinning from ear to ear, face a fetching red, looking much more like _Joker_ than the delinquent Kurusu. He’s abandoned all hope, it seems, of maintaining normalcy for the rest of the evening and has begun dragging Akechi around the ballroom by his wrist, bumping into high-ranking officials and pretty women alike. Akechi’s too tipsy, mind too scattered, to even think to apologize for his rowdy guest – his date.

Akira Kurusu is a nuisance. He’s standing in his way. In order to fully gain the trust of his father, Akechi _needs_ to put a bullet in his head. In order to see his plan out fully, he needs to dismantle this leader, knock him down, make him suffer. Akira Kurusu is bad news. He’s a brat and he’s dumb and he’s so stupidly _perfect_? Akechi is envious of him, hates him, and yet he wants to be him. He wants to _not care about opinions_ like Akira. He wants to _make friends_ like Kurusu. He wants parents and a found-family and not the shackles of the past and a grudge and a burning desire to see it all through. He wants to be wanted. He wants to _be_ Akira just as much as he wants him dead.

So when Akira drags him around like a doll, he wants to drop the act. He wants to abandon the pleasantries and smack the boy across the face. No, he wants to punch him, he wants to dig his nails against his face, leave marks, ruin that _perfect image_. He’s tired of playing the “dumb detective” that the thieves think they can outsmart and boss around. He wants them all _to shut up_.

“Hey,” Akira’s voice is suddenly close, suddenly warm against his ear and Akechi realizes belatedly that during his mental tirade, he’s failed to notice that Akira has stopped moving. Now, he’s slamming into the other boy’s chest and blinking at him in utter confusion. “Careful. I didn’t know you were a lightweight.”

“Hardly,” Akechi says, voice trailing on the edge of raw irritation, “it’s two glasses, and I—”

“Let’s dance,” Akira says instead and slips his hand down and into Akechi’s outstretched hand. Slowly, fingers find homes in small gaps and interlock once there. And with that, he tugs them both into the mess of bodies on the dance floor.

It’s a blur – it must be the champagne – because one second he’s preparing his less-than-gentle rejection and the next there’s a very solid, very real arm around his waist. There’s a hand splayed along his lower back and another hand guiding his own up, up, up and to back of Akira’s head, down to his nape.

“Princes inherently know how to dance, right?” Akira enquires steadily. Akechi’s heart skips two beats.

“This is absurd, Kurusu,” Akechi deflects and his fingers, curl against Akira’s nape. Tonight is the worst possible night to not have his gloves on.

“This is fun,” Akira smartly corrects and he begins leading them into a slow waltz in time with the music.

He’s close. He’s close and he’s warm and he’s real. Akechi acutely is aware of the warm puffs of air tickling his cheek as they dance. Their heads are pressed against one another’s, resting side-by-side, the intimacy of it all making Akechi want to retch. His entire body is just as numb as it is delightfully warm from the alcohol. There’s a pleasant buzzing in his head that can only be contributed to the booze and not the way Akira leads them with the gentleness of a true lover.

It’s absurd. It’s downright laughable. This _guy_ -

“You’ve never danced before,” Akira realizes, voice barely above a whisper as they spin, his feet almost trampling Akechi’s whose are barely moving.

“Of course I know how to dance,” Akechi is quite to rebut but his voice is shaky, it’s cracky, it’s nothing like the calm mask he always has on.

“Right.”

So they continue, Akechi still too in shock to pull away. So they dance, fingers awkwardly interlaced, chests touching, everything on absolute _fire_. Akira smells vaguely of coffee and stale cigarettes. There’s a touch of something else – some sort of cologne – that almost reminds the detective of freshly fallen rain. It’s an intoxicating combination that makes his hair stand on end and his heart beat faster, faster, faster. He’s almost fond of it.

They glide along the form, their motions becoming smoother with practice. “I was serious when I said thank you for inviting me,” whispers Akira, his smarminess temporarily gone. 

Akechi doesn’t want to answer. He _can’t_ answer. What do you say to that? What can you possibly tell someone who just so earnestly thanked you for inviting them to an event with you when you know full well you’re about to end their life? To make a mockery of pathetic ideals of friendship and teamwork. He doesn’t _need anyone_. He just needs himself. Akira is a _pest_ …

“You have very low standards,” Akechi answers, his fingers involuntarily digging hard against Akira’s hand.

“Maybe.” 

Akechi rolls his eyes at the reaction but says nothing more on the matter. Even if he wanted to, he’s stopped when Akira slides his arm up Akechi’s back, creeping higher and higher, and then – and then he’s squeezing his hand and pivoting them forward. 

He’s dipping Goro Akechi for every single cop in Shibuya to see.

Someone fucking kill him.

“ _Kurusu_ ,” Akechi nearly seethes, his eyes flying up to the ceiling – the chandelier, the warm lights, the crown molding – and then to pleasant grey eyes that are defiantly twinkling, that greet him with understanding and willingness and openness and warmth and Akechi wants to retch even more.

“You’re really light, detective,” Akira exhales warmly, holding him in place, staring down at him like a boy on a date and not a leader of outlaws.

“Let go,” Akechi warns, his voice on the edge of dark, angry, _real_ \--

“And drop you? No,” laughs Akira but he does pull Akechi upright, back on his feet.

And then they’re close again, their adjoined hands lingering up and off to the side. Akira’s eyes invade him, look right through him, violate them. There’s this scanning going on and Akechi feels weak to it. He feels disgusted and upset and _stupidly drunk_ off two glasses of champagne. His cheeks are undeniably red, not just from the alcohol, and he feels every single cell of his body vibrating. 

“What are you—?” Akechi begins to ask but he’s cut short by an unquestionably fond chuckle that tickles his face.

“Real looks good on you, Akechi. You should try it more often. I like it.”

And then he kisses him.

Akira Kurusu has the audacity to lean forward and brush their lips. As if the dancing wasn’t enough. As if the dipping wasn’t enough. Akira Kurusu has the tenacity to steal his _first kiss_ in front of all his colleagues, in front of the Prosecutor whose respect he admittedly wants most, in front of _everyone_ , and good god if _fucking Shido_ is here he’s going to _lose his mind_.

But Akira is warm. Akira feel _safe_ and the absurdity of it all is how _nice_ it feels. How nonsensically nice it is to have warm, partially chapped lips, pressed against his. To feel Akira’s breath against his lips as he slots their mouths together, coaxingly yet steadfast and gentle. It’s a powerful mix, it’s intoxicating, and Akechi’s breath hitches.

He starts to move his hand off Akira’s nape to _shove him away_ because what mixed signals could he have possibly been sending – he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want him, doesn’t need anyone or anything – but it never happens. His hand instead slides up and into unruly, messy dark curls. And his fingers tighten and _twist_ , burying themselves into it.

Akira laughs against their lips and he kisses him a bit harder, taking that as a good sign. He even thinks to squeeze their hands as he holds Akechi close by his waist.

The moment has its natural end, of course, as all moments do, and Akira pulls back. There’s a delay between the motion and his eyes fluttering open to meet confused, big brown ones. On anyone else this would look cute, endearing. On Akechi? It makes Akira shamefully want _more_.

“That was… unexpected,” Akechi admits, blinking, and he clears his throat. He wants to pull away, wants to run away, wants to wash this memory off him, but he doesn’t. He just laughs stupidly. “I hardly thought you were into public displays of affection.”

“I like spontaneity,” Akira corrects and he honest-to-god looks _nervous_. “Is it working?”

“In terms of spontaneity? Yes, it is,” says Akechi and he takes a step back. Akira lets him. “Well, it’s getting late and I really should be heading home and –”

“I’ll walk you home.”

“That’s hardly necessary.”

“I want to.”

“I don’t want to put you out.”

“You aren’t.”

They’re at a standstill. Akechi feels his skin crawling again, his whole body set on fire just from being under Akira’s scrutinizing gaze. “…All right, then.”

Everything about this is a bad idea. Tasting something you know you’d never allow yourself to have. Giving into temptation just for one night of dancing and champagne and smiles and kisses. It’s stupidly sweet and it’s not him. All he wants is to make Shido suffer. That’s all he needs in his life. Akira doesn’t fit into his life. Akira fits in a box down in the morgue, cold and dead and never to kiss him again.

But he’ll let him walk him home. Just this once, just for tonight, he’ll let the pleasant buzzing of alcohol warm his face and his hands and his heart – just let it melt a tiny bit – and he’ll allow himself the cheesy chase. The thrill of having someone chase after you, catch you, and pull you in for a kiss. It’s very dumb, it’s not calculated at all, and it isn’t just to get Akira to trust him more like originally planned. It isn’t for amusement it’s – it’s something else.

He doesn’t want to dwell on it. It’ll just make pulling the trigger harder when the time comes. 

It’s so, so stupid.

He spends the night throwing up, fingers clutching at his sink with bone-crushing strength. His eyes water, burn, and he keeps retching until he can get the taste of Akira out of him, forget the way it felt to have Akira hold his hand. He blames it on the alcohol and his low tolerance.

He doesn’t want to think it’s because of Akira.

Because if it is, if it is for some god forsaken reason, then he’s one step closer to failure.

He hates Akira Kurusu. Truly, he does.


End file.
